


Graceless Losers

by Rockinmuffin



Category: OFF (Game)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Dubious Consent, Explicit Language, F/F, F/M, Gender-neutral Reader, Humiliation, Light Bondage, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, Penetrative Sex, Reader-Insert, Run-On Sentences, Sexual Abuse, Weird Biology, fem-dom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 08:31:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1016405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rockinmuffin/pseuds/Rockinmuffin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’re not sure how long you’ve been here. Not too long, you think, because you still have the will to fight. Beneath all the scars and fear and anger there is still a flicker of hope. It’s small and fragile and flutters with every passing day but it still burns with life.</p>
<p>It’s why you keep on breathing even though it fills your lungs with smoke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Graceless Losers

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on the OFF Kink meme.
> 
> _"The Queen is not pleased that the Player aided her husband in destroying the kingdom she made. As punishment, she chains the Player to her throne and forces them to give her oral sex, and basically treats them as her pet/slave. Whenever they obey her whims, she rewards them by allowing them some small level of control of their trysts. If they disobey her, she punishes them, either by binding them up and fucking them until they bleed or using physical punishment (her heels, whips and such) to hurt them."_
> 
> Readers beware, this is not a happy story. There is rape. There is violence. If those things are triggering to you, please read something more light-hearted.
> 
> **Disclaimer:** I don't own OFF.

You hate this room. It’s grey and dark and cold. 

You hate the chain around your neck even more. It’s attached to the throne of a tyrant and not cold at all. It’s heavy and warm from your own body heat and every time you move it sings like caged birds.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been here. Not too long, you think, because you still have the will to fight. Beneath all the scars and fear and anger there is still a flicker of hope. It’s small and fragile and flutters with every passing day but it still burns with life.

It’s why you keep on breathing even though it fills your lungs with smoke.

“You’re quiet today, my pet. Lost in thought?”

You look up into the faceless visage of the queen—little q for a little person, too small to fit her title—and you feel that light in your chest burst in angry flames. You frown as her hand slithers across your scalp, serpentine and awful. You do not flinch. You refuse to give her the satisfaction.

“What a pretty little trophy you make,” she says and you hate how the words come out of her mouth in a soft hiss more than you hate the words themselves. Her hand travels down from your scalp to your neck to trace patterns along the lines of your collarbone. Her skin is cold and clammy against yours.

She feels like death.

Her touch travels back up your neck, to your chin, to your lips. She pokes through the seam of your mouth and you attempt to bite down at the intrusion. She’s too fast, pulls out of your mouth just in time, and the resulting chuckle makes you want to bite into the graceful swoop of her neck and tear at her flesh until she can laugh and breathe no more.

“Someone’s in a foul mood.” She tugs lightly at the chain, more teasing than reprimanding.

You scowl. “Yes, well, being chained up in a throne room will do that to a person.”

“You have no one but yourself to blame for this.” She rests her chin on her wrists and speaks slowly, like how adults speak to children who have trouble listening. You’re not quite sure if she’s patronizing you or if the conversation legitimately tires her. “The Batter might have asked for your help but this was never your fight. You didn’t have to get involved in matters that didn’t concern you.”

She’s quiet for a moment. Her lips purse as she tilts her head to the side, staring down at you with the eyes she does not have.

“Tell me. Do you ever regret teaming up with my husband to destroy everything I worked so hard to create?”

You bite your bottom lip and think of the room and the chains.

You think of her toxic world of sugar and smoke and plastic and metal and meat.

You think of Dedan who forgot how to care for his people, Japhet who resented and turned on them, and Enoch who watched them die and feed on one another’s corpses.

You think of your Batter who constantly put himself in danger to fight for a cause he believed in, who never backed down from an adversary even when the odds were stacked against him, how stupid and brave and tenacious he was and how watching him made you wish you could be more like him.

You think of all these things as you gather your nerve and spit in her face.

“I don’t regret a goddamned thing.”

She wipes the spit from her chin with the back of her hand. “That’s unfortunate,” she says though the smile on her mouth and the venom in her voice mean she thinks it’s anything but. “It means I’ll have to teach it to you.”

A sudden yank of the chain around your neck and you jerk forward. You catch yourself on your hands and knees right at her feet.

She tilts her head again, causing the ends of her hair to sweep against the planes of her shoulders. “You look so much lovelier like this. Truly, you were always meant to bow before me.”

“Enjoy it while it lasts.” You smile and you don’t need to see your reflection to know what an ugly expression it must be. It’s written all over her face. “I can’t imagine a queen as horrid as you would be very used to the sight of anyone bowed before her.”

You brace yourself for a hit but it never comes.

That worries you. It means she’s planning something far worse.

“Do you always act so brave when you have something so much stronger than yourself to hide behind?” She reaches for you, gets a good grip on your chin. “First you hid behind the Batter, now you hide behind your own barbed tongue.”

Fingers like tentacles brush against your bottom lip. This time, you note, they do not attempt to breach inside. What little satisfaction you gain from that is enough to make the corners of your mouth twitch.

“You’re so fond of running that clever little mouth of yours,” she says and every word tastes like poison. “Let’s see if we can put it to better use.”

She moves her hand from your chin to grasp the hair at the base of your neck. She grips it tight, tugs at it until your skin stings and pulls your head down until your cheeks are trapped between her thighs. She lifts her dress and you feel her flesh against your face.

“Pay proper tribute to your Queen.”

“You’re not my queen,” you say with more resolve than you currently feel. You wish you were standing so you could say it to her face. “You’re the queen of nothing.”

“How appropriate, then,” she says and you feel your skin break where her nails dig into you, “That you are nothing compared to me.”

She digs even deeper where the back of your skull meets your neck and she forces you forward until your nose is pressed flush to her clitoris.

The lips of her labia are wet and glistening. Her scent is suffocating. She smells like smoke and incense and sex; like gentle love-making by the fireplace. It makes your mouth water and your skin flush but you keep your lips sealed shut. She can chain you and beat you and hold you down but you will fight her every step of the way.

You may be her prisoner but you will never be her slave.

“Don’t be so stubborn.” She presses you closer, makes your closed mouth brush over her sex in mockery of all the chaste kisses of your childhood before The Game. “This could be so much easier for the both of us if you’d just swallow your pride and do as you’re told.”

From between her thighs, you look up at her with narrowed eyes.

“What? Now you have nothing to say? Don’t tell me your rapier wit has finally abandoned you?”

You keep your mouth shut.

The queen frowns, lets out an annoyed huff of air before pushing you away. She stands and the fabric of her dress flows back down her legs like a waterfall to cover her. Still, her scent lingers all around you like a fog.

You watch quietly as she grips your chain, unlocks and detaches it from her throne. Her grip is strong as she tugs at it. You don’t even have time to stand up before she begins crossing the room in long strides, forcing you to crawl along the floor to avoid scraped knees and floor burn.

The room is large and layered in shadows and takes the two of you longer to cross than you would have originally thought. She takes long strides and you can only crawl closely behind her as space once ensnared by darkness is revealed to you bit by bit. She only stops once she’s reached the opposite side of the room. You take the chance to lean back on your legs and lift your hands to your face. Your palms are red and raw.

She pulls you to your feet by the chain so suddenly and with so much force that you choke under the pressure.

“There’s something I want you to see.” You’re still trying to catch your breath when one of her hands grips firmly at your shoulder while the other grabs at the back of your skull. She forces you to stare ahead at the wall until your eyes begin to make sense of murky shapes in the shadows.

And then you see him; the Batter— _your Batter_ —hanging from the wall by his wrists and his ankles shackled to the floor. His mouth is gagged, muzzled like a feral animal’s. His eyes are shut and he looks so tired and defeated and everything about it is wrong, wrong, _wrong_.

You’ve never seen him so helpless before and it frightens you.

“Batter,” you say but it sounds more like a cry than actual words because your throat still hurts and you don’t have enough air in your lungs and suddenly all your smart quips and bravado have left you because your Batter should be standing tall with a weapon in hand and his head held high, not hanging on the wall like a tacky restaurant knickknack.

His eyes pop open at the sound of your voice and he stares at you like starving men stare at table scraps. Emotions flash across his eyes like a flipbook animation; desperation, relief, fear, guilt, and rage contort his expression in the short span of seconds. His eyes dart to the queen and the rage wins out, boils over, makes his pupils shrink and his muscles strain as he struggles against his bonds. He twists and jerks and fights until the front of his jersey is drenched in sweat and his breath comes out in heavy wet gasps from behind the gag. 

“Finished?” the queen taunts.

His eyes narrow but he makes no movements other than the rapid contractions of his chest.

“That’s what I thought.”

With a serpent smile, she turns her attention back to you. You stiffen when you feel her hands gently knead at the sore flesh still in her grasp. You bite your lip and keep your eyes focused on the Batter.

“Do you finally understand, my pet? He can’t save you.” The queen strokes her hand across your collarbone, travels down the middle of your chest to your stomach. You watch Batter’s eyes follow the motions. “Right now, he’s just as powerless as you are.”

You try to ignore the hand that slithers down your side with less than satisfactory results.

She leans over you from behind and you can feel her hot breath against the shell of your ear. “How brave are you now that you know your precious puppet can’t help you?”

You watch the Batter’s glare harden as the queen’s hand stops to rest at your hipbone.

“No more fighting,” she whispers as her teeth scrape along cartilage. The mix of breath and saliva and the coldness of the room is enough to make you shiver. “Disobey me,” she continues, “And I’ll kill him right in front of you.”

“Fuck you,” you say but the words sound weak even to you.

“Maybe if you’re good.” She nips your ear a little harder before pushing you to the ground in front of her. “Now get to work.”

You’re on your knees before her and eye level with her crotch and you’ve been in this position many times before but you’ve never felt so defeated.

_The Batter’s eyes never leave you._

“Fine.” You close your eyes and take a deep breath. “Fine,” you say, a little louder, “I’ll do it. Just… could we do this somewhere...?” You trail off, hands tightening in fists at your side until crescent moon cuts litter your palms. “Please, just not in front of him.”

The queen shakes her head. “As much as I enjoy when you beg, I’m afraid not, pet. You had that chance but you decided to be difficult. Obey or your precious Batter dies here and now.” She tilts her head back in the Batter’s direction. _He just keeps staring at you._ “You best hurry. I’m beginning to grow impatient.”

You bite your lip to hold back the curses on your tongue. You focus on your anger to distract yourself from the eyes. Silent, you lean forward and reach for her dress. It flows like silk beneath your fingertips. You bunch the fabric up at her hips until the only thing separating you from her flesh is space. You close the distance with an open-mouth kiss.

You furrow your brows. She tastes just like she smells; soft and musky and mouth-watering. It makes you angry. You wish she tasted awful so it’d be easier to remember that you’re supposed to hate this, hate her body, hate her, hate, hate, hate. You hate her so much your cheeks burn and your head dizzies and you lose yourself in the smell and taste and feel of her.

One of your hands slides from her hip to her front, fingers fluttering over the smooth expanse of skin just above her clitoris. You tease needy flesh with the ghost of a touch, raising goose bumps from her body like cadavers from the earth. The queen spreads her thighs further apart and you take it as the silent order it’s meant to be. You deepen the kiss as your thumb brushes over her clit, swirling in the same clockwise motion of your tongue inside her.

You pull your mouth back to nibble the outer lips of her labia, just barely scraping the flat edges of your teeth against sensitive flesh. You alternate between soft nips and gentle flicks with the tip of your tongue as the fingers of your free hand inch toward her glistening sex.

You prod at her entrance. She’s soaking; so wet you’re able to slide two fingers inside her without any resistance. You know it has nothing to do with your skill and everything to do with your obedience.

You spread your fingers inside her, stretching and pressing against her walls. You glide in and out and in again, curling your middle and index finger until you press up against something inside the queen that makes her walls clench and her legs tremble.

“There!” Her hands stretch out to pull you closer, one hand digging into the roots of your hair, the other pulling fiercely at the chain around your neck. “Right there!” she hisses again, forcing your face so close to her sex it’s hard to breathe.

In the deepest throes of passion, the queen does not beg. She commands, she orders, she dictates. Even with her thighs clenched tight around your head and her legs barely supporting her own weight, she demands her pleasure and expects you to obey.

You give her what she wants. Your fingers piston in and out of her with such force and speed it soon makes your wrist sore. You don’t let it hinder your movements. Instead, you focus on your fingers as they relentlessly pound against that spongy point of pleasure, the clockwork pattern of your thumb as it circles her clit, the lazy swipes of your tongue as it licks up the moisture that drips past your fingers and along your chin.

You lick and swirl and press and fuck until she comes undone. A short gasping breath is the only warning you get before she’s squeezing so tight around your fingers you can barely move them. A small amount of her release seeps out past your fingers and slowly streams down the length of your arm.

Her grip on you relaxes as she comes down from her high. You gently remove your fingers from her entrance. Your fingers are coated with the slick evidence of her orgasm. You’re about to wipe it off on the leg of your pants when the queen snatches your wrist.

“Now, now, pet. Don’t be wasteful.” The queen smiles as she raises your fingers to your lips. She forces them in your mouth, gags you, sticks them down your throat until you have no choice but to suck them dry. “That’s right. Drink every drop.”

And against your will, you do.

Satisfied, she lets go of your wrist. Immediately, you remove your fingers from your mouth, coughing and sputtering to relieve the uncomfortable sensation at the back of your throat.

The queen looks down at you with her lips set in a thin line. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

You clear your throat once more and she jerks the chain hard enough to send you into a real hacking fit. You choke and cough and bark out harsh breaths until your chest aches and your throat is raw inside and out.

“Settle down,” the queen says. For a moment, you think she’s still talking to you, but with the coughing silenced you can finally hear the sound of grunts and growls and chains clashing chains.

Then you remember the Batter, bound to the wall and witness to your shameful submission.

You look to him but his eyes are no longer on you. His pupils are small and the whites of his eyes are crisscrossed with angry red lines and he’s glaring death at the queen. He struggles against his binds, muffled shouts escaping around the gag as he shakes and twists and fights. He strains against the bindings like a man possessed—a demon in waiting with murder in his eyes—and if you were the queen you think you would fear for your life.

But the queen is not you. She’s not afraid at all. Instead, chained as he is, the Batter’s attempts do little more than quirk the corner of her lips up into an amused expression.

She steps toward the Batter, places her hand on his jaw and grins with open-mouth when he tries to jerk away from her touch. “Fret not, my love.” She pinches his chin until the skin starts to bruise grey. “You’ll get what’s coming to you.”

Maybe you can’t stand the thought of just sitting there silently while she’s threatening your Batter, or maybe you’ve just been quiet for too long, but you’re on your feet and your mouth is open before you know it.

“Calling someone _love_ doesn’t make up for the complete lack of the emotion, you ice-blooded bitch.”

The queen turns from the Batter, back to you. “If I have ice running through my veins then _you_ must be absolutely _frigid_ , my dear.” Her voice cracks at the end and she smiles at you; not her usual patronizing grin, but something uglier and almost vulnerable. You think you might have hit a nerve.

Her hands are back on you in an instant and she’s not even pretending to be gentle. She’s rough and you can already feel the bruises forming but it’s nothing you can’t handle. You can take anything she throws at you because her attention is away from your Batter. You’ll be fine because he’s safe, if only for the moment.

“So,” she drawls, clamping her hands so tight around your wrists you think you hear your bones creak, “Do you have anything else smart to say to me?”

You shrug your shoulders as you flash a crooked grin. “You’re a shit queen and a shittier wife.”

You don’t expect the backhand to your face, though you probably should have.

She hits you with just enough force to make your head tilt to the side. Your cheek stings and the inside of your lip is a little raw where you bit it but, when you tilt your head back and see the way her bottom lip trembles in barely suppressed rage, you can’t help but smile as a twinge of something akin to satisfaction sparks in your chest.

_You_ did that. You made her lose her cool. And with this chain around your neck and your hero hanging from the wall, it may be a hollow victory but it’s a victory all the same and tastes twice as sweet.

“That’s it.” The queen moves her hands to your shoulders and twists you around so that you’re facing the Batter and your back is pressed to her front. “I think you’ll agree that I’ve been beyond patient with you, but there is only so much of your blatant insolence that I can take.”

She puts weight on the back of your shoulder blades, forcing your knees to bend until you’re flat against the ground and your face is pressed firmly to the floor. You try to struggle as your pants are pulled roughly down your hips but her hold on you is too strong and your body is so tired and weak. The material pools around your knees in a wrinkled heap. You feel her hair brush against your lower back as she leans down, plump lips ghosting against the shell of your ear.

“I’m going to enjoy this,” she whispers. You feel her tongue trace your earlobe. “And who knows? If you stop fighting it, maybe you will too.”

Your breath hitches as you feel something pressing against you. It’s hot and thick and moves like it’s alive. You bite your lip and think of snakes and slugs and earthworms, dragging their bellies across the dirt as they crawl. It circles your entrance, teasing the sensitive flesh with its insistent touches. You try to turn, to see what this horrible prehensile thing is, but a hand grips at the base of your neck and grinds your cheek to the floor.

“Do you understand what I’m going to do to you?”

You ignore the question; hide your fear behind a dry chuckle because it’s what you’re best at. “I don’t remember _that_ being there last time I checked.”

“Perhaps you didn’t do as thorough a job as you thought.”

And then she’s inside you and it burns. She takes no time to prepare you for the intrusion before she’s pulling back out and shoving in at full force, stretching your insides to their limit. You grit your teeth and dig your fingernails into the ground, willing yourself to keep silent. You won’t scream. You can’t.

You won’t because your Batter’s watching. You can’t because you know it’s killing him inside that there’s nothing he can do to stop it.

You know this because you can see it in the way his eyes deaden and his muscles quiver and his teeth dig into his bottom lip until black blood drizzles down his chin.

“I’m okay,” you tell him.

You’re not, but you’ll be much worse if Batter keeps looking at you with those eyes full of something worse than pity. You have to turn away, think of something to distract yourself from his broken stare.

All that’s left to think about is the queen inside you.

The queen’s pace is steady. She moves in time with the pounding of your heart. Blood pumps in and she’s so deep inside you see stars shooting across the back of your eyelids. Blood pumps out and she pulls back so far you feel cold and empty. Then the blood pumps back in again and she’s even deeper than before.

Your entrance is stretching to adjust to the queen’s size and your skin is heating and you curse your traitorous body for not being half as stubborn as your mind. It feels so good it’s awful. You try to focus on the whispers of pain that linger—the ache of your insides as they stretch around her—but they are drowned out by the wails of white-hot pleasure pulsing deep inside your belly and between your legs.

It’s not fair. From her position behind you she’s reaching so deep inside and you feel so, _so_ full. She pushes into you until you see stars and your fingers dig into the floor _and it’s just not fair_.

Your mouth is open and you know you must be drooling but you don’t have the strength to close it. You can hardly even breathe. All your energy is spent on holding back the quiet sounds that want to escape your throat and fill the room.

You look anywhere but at the Batter. It’s bad enough he has to see you like this. The last thing you want is to see the look of disappointment on his face as you come undone beneath the queen the two of you failed to kill.

The queen can either read minds or faces because within moments she grips your chin and lifts your line of sight in the Batter’s direction. Your eyes clench shut the moment you realize what she’s doing.

“None of that, pet. Look him in the eyes. I want him to see what his precious puppeteer has been reduced to.”

You feel her phallus twist inside you and your eyes shoot open, forcing you to look up at the Batter with a half-glazed stare.

The force of her thrusts increases twofold. Your knees scrape the ground with every push of her hips.

The Batter does not blink.

“I’m okay,” you breathe, because you don’t know what else you can say. “I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m…I’m…Batter!”

You’re still shouting his name when the orgasm hits you. Your muscles clamp and your toes curl and your eyes clench shut. For a moment, you are not on your hands and knees in the queen’s throne room. You’re warm and tired and a little sore but you know that the Batter is close by and that’s all that matters right now.

Then the moment ends and the queen is still behind you, inside you, and laughing cruelly in your ear.

“Cute, but calling out to him will do you no good. He won’t help you.” You feel her lips smile against your earlobe. “He’s _enjoying_ this. Look.”

She tugs at the chain around your neck, brings your face to the Batter’s crotch to stare dead straight at the tented bulge that strains against his trousers. The Batter looks anywhere but at you, lips clenched shut in shame.

You want to tell him that it’s alright, that you don’t blame him for his body’s response, that the only one deserving of your ire is the one who binds you both, but the queen already knows he’s your weakness and you know better than to add fuel to the fire. Instead, you place your hand on his outer thigh, gentle but solid, and hope he understands what you’re trying to convey.

His muscles relax beneath your hand—just barely, but it’s all you need.

“How about you give him a kiss?”

You know it’s an order, not a suggestion. You can’t reach his lips so you mouth his erection through the fabric of his pants. You can feel him twitch beneath your lips. The cloth dampens with the mix of your saliva and the queen’s climax still clinging to your chin.

“Good pet.” She pushes her hand under your shirt to tweak at your nipple until it hardens. “Take care of your Batter. If you do a good enough job, I might be inclined to let him live a while longer.”

You continue to move your lips against his clothed erection, whispering silent words against the seams of his crotch so that both he and the queen cannot hear. Now is not the time for a confession, not under these circumstances, _not like this_ , but you let your lips form the words you want to say, even if just for your own benefit.

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” Her hand strokes along your back, creeping along the steps of your spinal cord. “For all his talk of purity he knows nothing of it. He’s always wanted this, wanted _you_. I could see it the moment you two stood before me, the way he looked at you. I would know; he used to look at me that way. He’s a beast; insatiable and hungry.”

He’s not the only one. Her hips start to shift against you again, reminding you that she’s still deep inside. You breathe heavily against the front of Batter’s pants.

“Part of him still wants me even now.” Her hand moves from your spine to the back of your head, smoothing your hair down. “Don’t feel too bad, my pet; he can’t help it. We were made for each other. King and Queen. Father and Mother. Brother and Sister. Husband and Wife. Even rejected, it’s not a role that can be so easily forgotten.”

She reaches over you and you feel the Batter tense when her hand rests on his shoulder.

“What’s wrong, husband? Are you jealous that I’m fucking your precious puppeteer?” Her hand moves from his shoulder, up his neck, to his cheek. “Or are you jealous of your puppeteer for being fucked by me?”

You hear him growl around the gag, feel his body shake, see the way his eyes narrow into slits as he speaks to her silently the way only a couple who were once in love can.

The air is tense with the equal desire to fuck and kill. It rolls off both their bodies in waves, smothering you, choking you with raw emotion.

If they could fight, they would. As it stands, your Batter is restrained , the queen is not, and you are almost powerless.

But not entirely.

Your hands squeeze at the Batter’s erection through his pants. His eyes shoot down to you and the heat of rage is swallowed up by the heat of arousal. The distraction works. The queen rewards you with the circular motion of her hips and the hot friction massaging your insides.

You shiver, but focus your attention on the Batter. You unbutton his pants with shaky fingers and are greeted by paper pale skin. He’s a blank canvas and you want to paint him with your fingers and lips and tongue. The only spot of color on him is the darkening head of his cock, tinted grey by his black blood and already weeping with need.

Your finger reaches down to trace the faint line of a vein, followed soon after by the tip of your tongue.

You feel his pulse beat against your lips.

“Forgive me,” you whisper against hot flesh before you open your mouth and swallow him whole.

He jerks forward but your hands pressed to his thighs hold him steady. Even through the gag you can hear his heavy breaths, hear the manacles rattle as his wrists shake, hear the quickening of his heartbeat as it drums inside your skull.

He tastes like meat and smoke and plastic and metal and sugar and sweat. Like everything you imagined and more.

You can feel pre-cum sliding down the back of your throat. You reflexively swallow and nearly choke as your throat flutters around his girth. He groans through the gag above you, chest heaving with the effort to keep himself still.

You pull back, the flat edges of your teeth lightly scraping against his sensitive skin. You take a moment to appreciate the way he whimpers at your touch, suckling gently at the tip before engulfing him all over again.

You repeat the process, back and forth and back and forth; mechanical motions that have his hips straining and your lips stretched sore. You ignore the sting and concentrate on the warmth of his flesh. You try to ignore the fullness of your entrance in favor of the fullness of your mouth with less successful results.

The queen presses the heel of her palm to your front, rubbing just below your hips in time with her thrusts, in time with the thrusts of your mouth over the Batter. She refuses to be forgotten. Secretly, you’re thankful. There’s nothing that can make this right, so at least her presence is a constant reminder that all of this is wrong.

Your nerves are on fire and your body is filled to the breaking point and all you want is for this feeling to simultaneously stop and never end.

A sharp thrust from the queen hits you so deeply she forces a moan out your body. You can feel the head of the Batter’s erection twitch as your throat vibrates around his flesh. That’s all it takes to push him over the edge.

He groans, deep and throaty as he spills inside you. You pull back, coughing up stringy black globs onto the throne room floor. You haven’t even regained your breath before your face smashes to the floor, smearing your cheek into the Batter’s release as the queen holds you down.

“What an exceptional Puppeteer you make,” the queen laughs against the shell of your ear. Her thrusts increase in speed and intensity, hitting your insides so hard your vision spots. Your heart’s beating so loud in your chest you can hardly hear as she continues to speak. “You pull at your puppet’s strings like a true professional.”

You try to speak but you trip over your tongue. All you can do is grit your teeth and clench your eyes shut and endure the violent onslaught of flesh against flesh. You can feel your blood rushing and your insides squeezing around the queen’s phallus. Your nails scrape against the floor as her pace falters. Her hips jerk sporadically against you until she’s pressed flush to your backside. She stills, her breath hot on the back of your neck. Her release seeps out your body, slowly dripping down the backs of your thighs.

There’s a moment of quiet. You can almost appreciate the afterglow if only because it allows you the chance to finally catch your breath. You suck in greedy breaths. When you open your eyes, you make contact with the Batter. He looks tired, a little ashamed, but not broken.

Too soon, the queen is standing on steady legs, tugging you to your feet by the heavy chain that circles your neck. You chance one last glance towards the Batter before you stumble after her, barely pulling your pants back up over your hips before you trip over them.

You don’t fight as the queen chains you back to her throne. You’re too drained to do more than suck in a deep lungful of smoke. You just watch with heavy eyes as the lock clicks and the key is safely placed back on her person.

“I’ll be back,” she promises, but the curve of her lips looks more like a threat. She strokes her palm along your forehead in one last mocking gesture before turning away and leaving the room.

And then it’s just you and the Batter.

You can’t see him—it’s too dark and he’s too far away—but now you know he’s there. The two of you are in this together. Batter and Player, Puppet and Puppeteer.

“Don’t worry, Batter. We’re going to get out of here.” And when the words are fully out of your mouth, you realize that you believe in them. They’re not tainted with empty promise. They’re full of the same strength and conviction that your orders to the Batter have always held.

The queen’s greatest mistake was revealing the Batter to you. He may be your weakness, but more than that he is your source of strength.

You’re a tactician and Batter is a warrior. Without him, you are weak. Without you, he is lost. But together, the two of you are an unstoppable force.

“We’re getting out of here,” you say again, because it feels so good to say the words and really mean them. Your mind is already swarming with plans of deceit and key-snatching and fighting and escape and revenge; plans of lowering defenses and taking advantage of swollen pride. “And when we do,” you continue, lips twisting into a crooked smile, “The queen is as good as dead.”

You don’t need to see the Batter to know he’s mirroring your expression. After all, you’re playing a game, aren’t you? And neither you nor Batter are graceful losers.


End file.
